five times tom branson imagined becoming a father and the one time he
by lilabut
Summary: How was he here today?


five times tom branson imagined becoming a father and the one time he did

**I**

_summer 1914_

He wanted to take it all back, the urge to follow William's example and shove his fist into the righteous grin on Thomas' face like a throbbing pain underneath his skin. Only he never did.

In a twisted way, like the passing of young people usually bared, Thomas was right. Not their flesh and blood. Only their employers.

_Calm down._

No. No living soul should have to be faced with such tremendous loss, yet it was not his. Compassion and pity were seeping through his blood, pumped so furiously by his heart as he let go of William's struggling form.

_He had that coming._

There was no imagining the pain. It seemed too fundamental, too deep, shattering the most basic and primal layers of the human heart and soul. To lose one's flesh and blood, for hope to slip through fingers like dust dancing in the ray of sunlight.

He wished this fate on no living soul. Wondering if, in the end, it would not be the smarter path to never ever have children, he allowed himself to take in the concept of becoming a father, of splitting his heart in two.

As he sat down at the quiet table, tense in the aftermath of the struggle he had just ended, Tom felt every nerve ending in his body buzzing with fear and the utter void opening itself in his mind as he considered the dimensions of pain the human mind could sense.

Running the tip of his finger against a ridge in the worn wood of the table, his mind drifted off to Lady Sybil, and he could still see her smile, sense her excitement, hear her laugh at the hidden beauty of the world, could see her eyes shine as they passed fields of spring blossom and the sunlight reflecting of ripened grain.

In the short year he had spent here, all the way from home, nothing had embodied happiness – not his own, but merely the vast concept of it – like she had, so young and hopeful, always on the edge of the future.

For a short moment, as brief as the last flicker of a flame dancing before it was blown out, a resolution settled in Tom's mind, that, if only it were in his power, he would gladly swap places if only it meant sparing that young well of happiness the pain of this loss.

He shook his head almost immediately at his own folly. Was he not the chauffeur? What were Lady Sybil's future and happiness to him but a passing glimpse, a footnote in the book of his life?

If only her smile wasn't so bright, and her laugh not so clear...

**II**

_autumn 1915_

Her eyes seemed a little less deep that afternoon, grey more than blue, like a storm slowly creeping across the expanse of the sky. She was quiet, almost unbearably slow as he wiped the early autumn mud off the Renault's shiny side.

They never spoke about why she had been coming down the gravel path to the garage so many times in the past months, why the sound of her heels against the ground could sometimes be counted like a clock, and Tom never once asked. It was inappropriate, every word they exchanged past _good morning_ and _goodnight_, and they both knew it.

Perhaps it was a silent agreement made between the two of them. Neither of them was bothered when she sat down in a corner while he worked, and words flowed freely. Books and politics, the weather and childhood memories.

The smell of motor oil and the leafs outside accompanied her now, a rough edge to the finery of her clothes and the tight weaving of her hair. It brought Tom almost unbearable sadness to realize how similar they were in their loneliness, in their dire need for somebody to _listen_.

That afternoon, however, she was as quiet as a feather slowly falling to the ground, twirling in the wind. Just as gracefully, she stood by the door, her purple blouse against the greyish blue of the cloud-speckled sky giving her a sense of melancholy that twisted Tom's insides painfully.

She leaned against the door frame, and he worried about chips of paint coming loose as they always did, only it never mattered when they got stuck to his clothes. Her arms were folded across her chest, protectively, not definitely, and the urge to wrap his discarded coat over her slender frame was nearly unbearable.

It was not a terribly cold day, but the early autumn air was chilly as the evening drew nearer, and a soft breeze upset the bright leafs outside, some of them falling every now and then, covering the grounds in a carpet of colours.

_Is anything the matter, Milady?_

He eyed her carefully, the thoughtful and occupied expression on her features answer enough to his question.

She looked at him then, truly looked, perhaps for the first time, at the young man opposite her, and her eyes narrowed for a split second, as if contemplating opening her heart on this plain day.

Tom never knew what decision she made in that moment, and he would wonder about it until the day he died, so many decades after this. All he knew was that she began talking, pouring out her heart to a man she scarcely knew, and from that day on, nothing was ever the same in his eyes.

She talked about seeing Matthew in the village, and how worried they all were, and how the world seemed to grow so dark around her while she stood still and it spun and spun. She spoke of her future, and how the one she had been prepared for all her life seemed so utterly out of reach and silly now, how children were lost, each man dying at the front someone's son. Told him about a distant relative who had lost her only son and now barely uttered a word.

_I don't think I ever want to have children if it means they can cause you so much pain._

Tom could never in his life quite manage to wipe the imagine from his mind that formed itself in that moment. Of Sybil, all alone in old age, long grey hair in a braid with a smile on her face to distract from the emptiness in her heart. For what was there these days for a woman on her own? He prayed in that moment, for her every wish to come true, if only the world around them could change to accommodate them.

_What about you, Branson? _

Her question lingered for a moment longer than it should have, and then the images started flooding through Tom's mind like a whirlwind, out of control and utterly vivid, almost so close he could grab them in his dirty hands.

Sybil smiling as the wind breezed through her open hair – oh, how he longed to see it when it was not all caught up in those weaves – her lips spread wide in a smile, a plain white dress floating around her, the seam kissing the grass, damp from the early morning dew in spring. Her delicate hands, a thin gold band around her finger like a star in the night, cradling her belly, always a smile on her face. A baby sleeping in her caring arms. Her features dancing against the light of a fireplace. Two young children running wildly around her, all the while, the echo of her laugh filling these images, giving them life.

_Yes, _he answered suddenly, having not spent a single thought about being a father himself, _I suppose I would want to have children one day. Even if it may cause pain._

Oddly enough, she smiled then, not a genuine smile of happiness, but a wicked twist of lips, and Tom knew she would not see what he saw. Not now. Perhaps never.

_You are very brave._

_No, Milady. I've never met anyone as brave as _you.

The next smile, Tom noted, was real.

**III**

_autumn 1916_

Over and over he kept telling himself that it were only two months, that two years had passed since that summer afternoon when her hand had been interlaced with his and her skin so close to his as he whispered good news in her ear.

What were two months compared to two years of finding himself in a whirlwind of emotions he could not grasp? They would be over so quickly, like time has its habit of passing too soon.

Still, as he drove along the line of trees, eyes focussed on the road in front of him, he could feel his heart pulling towards the back-seat where she sat, quietly, and he pretended not to hear the barely audible sniffs, acted as if he had not seen her tears.

He was so proud of her, so very proud that his chest constricted every time he imagined her rushing to someone's aid, the sure feeling of satisfaction she would derive from this. Finally, after all these years he had watched her longing for something, anything, she got to play her part in the world, and to see her off for this was a moment of honour for Tom.

If only it was not for the pain of seeing her leave. They were still a long way from York, and he knew there would be enough time to speak his mind, to tell her how very dearly he missed her already, that the thought of not seeing her pained him so terribly much. It made no difference that it was not his place to say or even feel. It made no difference to him, anyway.

The November air was cold, and even through his gloves, his fingers were beginning to feel numb against the steering wheel.

She'll be back in two months time, he kept thinking again. But would things be the same in two months time? Would she still be there, in the garage, chatting and opening her heart and soul, laughing and smiling and watching him work?

No matter what path they took, it would not last forever, and Tom was beginning to realize this now. What if this was the step she had needed to break free? What if she left for some other hospital somewhere in the country? What if, what if...

_Are you cold, Milady? There is a blanket underneath your seat if you wish._

It seemed like such a vain thing to say, such a waste of time, because she knew about that blanket, had once, on a sunny afternoon last summer, jokingly suggested a picnic as they drove back from Ripon.

He said it now anyway, because he needed something to break the silence, needed to reassure himself that, for now, she was still here, would not fade away just yet.

_Thank you, but I'm quite alright._

She was lying, and it hurt to hear her lie so plainly in the open, muffled only by the wind rushing in his ears, carrying off her words into the dead silence of the forest.

It occurred to Tom then that, if he did not speak the words he truly needed to say, that picnic they had so foolishly made plans for would never happen, that she truly would fade away, time and title tearing them even further apart, until she day she'd marry one of the stiff man he used to drive up to the house before the war and settle for a life in a golden cage.

All the images he had of her, old and grey with her grandchildren by her side, came flooding back in one tremendously overwhelming rush. The car severed a little as Tom lost his focus.

He knew then. All this time when he thought about her future, he had been thinking about _their _future. Their wedding. Their children. Their grandchildren. Their life.

Always, _always_ her.

_Is anything the matter, Branson?_

It was her. And now she was fading away.

_I apologize, Milady. I must have lost focus for a moment._

**IV**

_spring 1919_

Kissing her against the side of the car, not even the cool spring breeze could distract Tom from the feeling of Sybil's hand tenderly wrapped around his neck, or her arm pulling him even closer until their bodies touched entirely.

They both leaned against the car for support, clinging to each other breathlessly.

_We ought to leave._

He nodded, but kissed her once more instead, the feeling of her soft lips against his like a dream he desperately wanted to continue, so, _so _terrified of waking up in a cold bed across the sea to realize it was all a dream.

_Tom._

The way she breathed his name against his lips send shivers down Tom's spine, his nerves buzzing, every fibre of his being pulling him closer to her. Nothing seemed to matter now that he held her in his arms, and as she pressed her lips against his more urgently, he saw it all play out in his head once more.

The future he had seen for them, it all seemed within his reach now as his fingers sifted through some loose strands of her hair. There was only a small hint of sadness that it all had to be like this - the two of them against the back of the car in the garage in the middle of the night, their suitcases dropped carelessly by the door, their minds set on Scotland.

_Sybil._

His own words are a mere release of breath, his hands fumbling against her, too eager, too full of longing, every sensation completely overwhelming him, nothing enough, nothing too soon, nothing too late.

Parting with a heavy, mutual sigh, they looked deeply into each other's eyes. Tom could see all his dreams play out in the deep pools gazing up at him with so much love and wonder, excitement and happiness.

She would be _it_, for the rest of his life, that he knew in this moment, cupping her cheek in his hand as softly and gently as he could with all his joy bubbling in his veins. The smile on her face burned brighter than the sun had in many years, and it sealed their promise of a long awaited future spend together. He wondered if she had any idea how much he truly loved her, how deeply the roots of his feelings for her went. In this moment, he was sure she could sense it. Perhaps not grasp it, not yet.

After all these years, only a few days would make all the difference now. They would be husband and wife, properly, honestly, and for the rest of their days. It would be the two of them, and perhaps, one day, it would be the two of them old and grey, hand in hand, two lives lived full of love and hope and passion and with the future always so brightly on the horizons, with stories of old times to tell their grandchildren.

_Let's go._

**V**

_summer 1919_

The crystal clear sound of her laughter, so innocent, so genuine, echoed through the wide expanse of the park, and Tom struggled to keep up her pace.

He hoped dearly that no one else had decided a late night walk in the park would be a smart idea, for he was sure the two of them looked like maniacs running across the grass like children. His coat had been left back at their flat, and Sybil's hand held on to the seam of her white dress as she ran in wide circles, barefoot and her hair floating down her back in cascades of chocolate brown.

Perhaps he should have known that not even on their wedding night, things would go as others might expect.

_Show me the stars_, she had said as they had kissed almost furiously against the door of their flat, wedding guests and dances long forgotten, feet aching, limbs tired with the excitement of the day.

And here they were, chasing each other around the park at night, leafs dead quiet in the calm summer night.

Finally, he caught up with her, and, in a matter of seconds, found himself wrapped up in her arms, lips pressed together tightly, legs swaying in a soft dance to the melody of the night.

Words were mumbled then, unclear and twisted, muffled by their lips brushing against each other's. Eventually, they began to sink to the ground slowly, parting as they did. Despite the warm air of the night, the grass was cool as they laid down, flat on their backs.

For a moment, Tom wondered about the pristinely white dress that Sybil wore, but since she could not be bothered, he forgot as well, staring at the golden band around her finger, reflecting the moonlight. Mesmerized, he let his eyes gaze at his wife – his wife, his wife, the word so longed for yet so surreal – and how beautiful she looked. Pale in the night, soft and gentle, her hair a messy pillow beneath her head as she looked up at the crystal clear sky, the stars mirrored in her eyes.

Never in his life had he seen anything this beautiful, and he looked up at the stars for a moment, as well, eager to see the world through her eyes, before he propped himself up on one elbow.

She looked up at him as he moved, the smile on her lips so achingly sweet.

_I'll remember this night until the day I die._

Her voice was soft, a warm breath against his skin as he leaned down to brush his lips against hers, as softly as the grass that played around where his hands touched the ground.

_Then let's make sure every day from now until then is worth it._

**I**

_summer 1920_

Had the days been worth it?

He remembered that night in the park, kissing her beneath the stars. Not many days had passed since then, not even a fragment of what he had meant when those words had washed over his lips.

Somehow, in the end, one minute had made all the difference. Screams. Pleads. Breaths not taken. And all his dreams were, the moment her fingers went still in his hand, condemned to be just that. Dreams.

So many times he had seen her, in his mind, holding their first grandchild's hand, taking a walk across a field of green and spring blossom. Now, she had not even been given the chance to see their daughter in the light of day. Not even once.

Looking down at their daughter sleeping peacefully in his arms – _so_ beautiful, so utterly perfect - he remembered that once, he had wished to take on all the pain if only his darling Sybil could be spared. Remembered a dull autumn day in the garage when she had sworn to never have children to spare herself the pain they could bring.

How did it all go so wrong? How was he here today?

And she was gone.

* * *

**A/N: **I was going through my old files and found this. It was written shortly after Sybil's death, and I realized I never posted it anywhere.


End file.
